Underneath My Fingertips
by TheOtterKnight
Summary: It hadn't been Brenda who had held Thomas' hand while he recovered. (Set during TST.)
**Universe:** Bookverse. Set during The Scorch Trials.

 **Warning(s):** Gore.

 **Pairing(s):** Pre-slash Newt/Thomas.

 **Word Count:** 1,302

 **Disclaimer:** Roses are red, violets are blue, I don't own, don't bother to sue. This is (slight) slash but don't bash.

* * *

There was only quiet murmurs among the group now, the shouts of agony long since dulled to raspy breathing. He could feel panic rise in his chest every once in a while, when it was quiet. The quiet meant that something bad could have happened. He could feels his nerves light up in worry, his muscles clench and his jaw set, staring in determination at Thomas' chest and only letting out the slightest sighs of relief when his chest rose and fell.

Newt was worried about Thomas. The younger boy's shoulder was torn up, blood oozing from the wound, never seeming to want to clot. Whatever extra clothes they had were pressed tightly to the wound, stemming the flow and being permanently stained red. Thomas looked like a wreck, fever burning up his skin, and a deathly pallor was highlighting his skin. There were telltale signs of infection marking his skin, and bruises were forming from beneath the bandages, ugly purples and greens. He was always shivering, sometimes moaning under his breath and only coming to once in a while. The brunette didn't have proper protection from the sun - his skin was quickly becoming baked and cracked, leathery along his face, his lips cracking. Thomas would sometimes open his eyes, muttering hoarse cries, and his usually brilliant brown eyes would be hazed over, and it doesn't look like he can focus in on anything.

The sight of Thomas makes Newt sick. He was used to taking care of others, to being able to offer support, but all he could do was change the bandages and help move him closer to the mountains, where they all had agreed to go. But when Thomas had thrown up and the evident signs of infection grew worse, they had all agreed to stop and rest. Newt barely left his side, and when he precariously took a sip from his own water, he leaned down to pour some of it into Thomas' mouth, some of it trailing down the side of his lips. The unconscious boy would offer a mumble, something that Newt always took as a 'thanks', but would offer no other signs of consciousness. He would shake and shiver during the day, and burn up at night. Newt often shooed the others away when they tried to help. Thomas was _his_ responsibility. If Newt had only listened to his worries about that blond man with the gun, then they wouldn't be in this position, with Thomas on his deathbed and barely breathing.

Newt is careful with the torn fabric from the shirt, pressing it to the water container and tipping it so that the water dampened it just enough. He sets it aside, cautiously, and presses the wet cloth to Thomas' head, watches him curl into the cool cloth and his lips open just slightly. Thomas sags back against the ground, incoherent murmurs leaving his lips, barely a dehydrated whisper leaving his lips. Newt is careful, oh, so careful, in swiping across the dirt-riddled boy's face, wiping away the grime and sweat. It does nothing to make the boy look healthy, and instead makes him look all the more dead, despite the staggering rise and fall of his chest. Newt could feel the tremor that ripples through him, a cry that wants to slip past his lips in despair because he is so, so close to losing his Tommy.

But he _can't._ He _can't_ lose Thomas, not like this.

The thought alone is enough to send him worrying, for his heartbeat to pick up, for his throat to constrict with worry. Thomas had promised him - _all of them -_ that he'd get them out of the Glade, that he would get them the cure. He can't deny that the thought of living without Thomas is so _terrifying._ The thought of being _without_ him is like not seeing the sun. He had been a ray of hope in the maze, and now seeing him here, broken and destroyed, it brings forth the terrifying thought that he could _die._ Newt had always known this, but it's somehow different when he knows that he could potentially help _somehow_ but he _can't._ Newt was so used to helping people, but now he just .. couldn't. Thomas was so helpful back in the maze and Newt hadn't done anything to repay him, yet.

Thomas makes a gurgle of discomfort and Newt withdraws his hand, realizing that he had become lost in his thoughts, in the terror of uncertainty. "Sorry," he mumbles, as if Thomas might've been able to understand at some point. "Didn't mean to g'you wet." It calms his nerves, talking to Tommy like this. It makes him half expect for the doe-eyed boy to suddenly sit up and smirk that silly little smile and tell Newt to sod off and stop mothering him. Newt turns to inspect the bandage, frowning at how thick the blood had gathered there. He ignores the slick feeling of congealed blood on his calloused palms, trying not to let his heart wrench horribly when Thomas lets out a surprised shriek when he all but peels the bandages away, quickly placing different strips back on. He moves the soggy bandages to the side and puts as much pressure as he dared to the bandage, ignoring the quesy feeling that overcame him at the sight of the dark blotches appearing on the cloth. He ties off the bandage and wipes his hands off on his pants, not caring if they get stained.

"Who knew you were so hard to take care of, Tommy?" he laughs, trying to make light comments even though it physically pains him to see him like this. "Not that I bloody mind, you git." His hands somehow find their way to Thomas' forehead, brushing some dark locks out of his face. He smiles uneasily when the brunette practically melts into his touch, the sick boy's breath hitching. "Not that I ... mind doing anything for you," he continues, carefully. "Because I would, do anything for you, I mean." He only retracts his hand when Thomas twitches, a slight convulsion that sends another tremor through Newt. Newt lets his hand rest at the ground between them.

"I don't understand it," Newt says, voice softer as he watches the certification of Thomas' life in the way that he breaths. "I don't understand why you mean so much more to me than anyone else," his voice chips then, "why I'd be willing to lay my life for you in ways that I wouldn't the others. You're so much more important to me, Tommy. I can't bear it if I lost you, too." He thinks of Alby, then, and wonders if this was a repeat of the other boy's sacrifice.

"Please, don't leave me," he whispers, his fingers reaching out and twining with Thomas' hands. He may be the Glue, but you can't have glue without something to stick to. Thomas' hands feel clammy, and engulf Newt's much smaller hands. It feels startlingly nice, despite how cold the other feels to the touch. Newt strokes his thumb along the backside of Thomas' hand, feeling despair well up inside of him. Even despite this, it feels _right,_ with their hands pressed like this, even if there is no response from Thomas or if it'd likely never happen again. He doesn't want Thomas to die - doesn't want _anyone_ to die - not before he's said what he wants to say. Not when he cares so much about Thomas that it would devastating for him to go. Not when he _loves_ him. "Come back to me."

The tears that touch his eyelashes feel almost freezing compared to the burning touch of Thomas' skin. Maybe if he kept talking, kept hoping, Thomas would come back to them. Come back to _him._

 _"Please, Tommy."_


End file.
